Children of the Wilderness
by bluerain1984
Summary: Movie version,rated for lemon. After the disastrer in the Opera Popular, Eric, the Phantom no longer, wanders the streets, when he is saved by another child of the wilderness. Will he have a second chance, or will darkness overcome him?
1. Aftermath

Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera, neither book nor musical nor movie. I kept getting this idea in my mind as I watched the movie. This is actually inspired by Gerard Butler's portrayal of the Phantom. I couldn't help but feel pity for the blue eyed shadow. So,here's my new story, done without any help from anyone. 

**Children of the Wilderness**

**Chapter One: Aftermath**

_Say you'll love me every waking moment.  
Say the word and I will follow you…_

As Eric wandered the side streets of Paris, his hand covering his deformed face from the even the drunken impoverished who lined the alleys, he still heard her voice… Her haunting voice in his mind. In his soul. As the summer night suddenly turned chill, his once strong frame could not take the exhaustion nor the heart break form this night's most disastrous endeavor. He collapsed just as thunder clapped in the sky.

_**Break**_

As rain started beating on the ground, and lightening lit the sky, a young woman hurried to her hovel of a room, the poor excuse for a home. Though it was home enough for what she could afford. She could not take the short cut near the Opera House. It was swarmed with firemen and police and so many others. It was a terrible tragedy. Now she would never see the inside of the famous Opera Popular. But, as she took the other alley, one further form her apartment, she saw near the end a large lump. At first she thought it yet another drunk, but then, seeing the fancy shoes, the whiteness of the shirt, she knew it must be an Opera patron. He must have been hurt when he escaped the burning theatre. She rushed to him and brushed back his pale blond hair.

"Oh dear God!" she gasped, seeing the right side of his face. "The poor thing must have been burned." she tried to wake him, shaking his shoulder. He stirred… looked up at her face. She almost wished he had not opened his eyes. They were a blue she'd never known existed in the world. In this one moment she saw pain and heartache and… fury… Yet her heart broke to see him.

"Christine…?" he mumbled.

"Monsieur," the young woman said, trying to lift him, putting his large arm around her slender shoulders, then using her knees she rose up, and he staggered up with her, stumbling beside her. "Monsieur," she said again, "You are hurt. Come with me, please."

"No Hospitals!" he shouted, trying to wrench away form her. The poor man was too weak even to escape her grasp. "No Hospitals! I shall die!"

"You are delirious, Monsieur," she tried to calm him, yet as he struggled he tripped, and slumped against her. She nearly fell with him, yet she held steady. She knew she should take him at once to have his burns treated… but she did not. Against her better judgment, she led the stumbling man to her home. Slowly she helped him through the door, up the creaking stairs, and into the room of her meager dwelling. Carefully she helped him to the bed, and began removing his shoes. As she tugged her torn and ragged sheets up over him, he opened his eyes again, and looked up blankly. He was shivering. She hurried to her closet for another blanket, and she heard him speak again.

"Christine… Christine…" he murmured.

"Celeste," she said.

"Wha-?" he said, closing his eyes and turning, muffling his voice in the old pillows.

"I'm Celeste," she said again, but he was sleeping.

**_Break_**

Eric did not wake again for many hours. At first he only smelled. Where ever he was now it smelled disgusting, but he was used to disgusting. Rat droppings, mold, dank, it was all familiar. Yet, this mold was not the slime that grew along the stone of the Opera's underground. This was wood he smelled. Then a good smell. Food. Someone was cooking. He even heard the sounds of that someone nearby, sizzling meat on a skillet. He opened his eyes slowly. Not jail, as he feared, nor a hospital, which he feared worse. He sat up, and one of the blankets that covered him slid to the floor. He picked it up and studied it. The fabric was softer than silk, yet it was warm, as he wrapped it around his shoulders, it was warmer than wool. And the design, he saw, depicted a sort of story. A story from a far and foreign land. The colors and patterns, all were exquisite, and it seemed to simmer, as if jewels had been stitched in with the thread. Such a treasure! It did not belong in this hovel.

"Magnificent!" he said. The person in the nearby kitchen dropped a plate, shattering it. Without thought Eric stood up, and turned by the half wall that hid the small stove. There was a woman kneeling, picking up the shattered plate. Her long black hair, though dull and poorly washed, had sparks of red in it as it fell over her shoulders. Her skin was palest white. She briefly looked up, then looked upo at him again, staring at him. Her eyes were green, but she was obviously from the Orient. He could tell that by the shape of her eyes. Eyes with very long lashes. Her eyes were nothing like Christine's velvety brown ones. Nor was this woman's small mouth like the petals that were Christine's lovely lips…

He remembered his face, and covered it with his hand, turning back to the bed. "Don't look at me!" he barked at her.

Yet she stod up and rushed to him. He felt her tiny hands on his back, and her say in perfect French, "Monsieur, please lie down. You've been burned, fleeing formthe Opera. Forgive me for not taking you to a hospital but you begged me before not to-"

"It is no burn!" he growled. He wanted her to leave, leave him to escape and hide. But her hands didn't flinch, no matter how angry he sounded. "It is my own face."

"Oh…" she breathed, her hands lowering a bit from his shoulders, though they still did not leave his back. "I… You… You were feverish," she said. "I felt I had to help you."

"You help me?" he yelled, turning to her. She stumbled back. "You see? I am a demon! A monster! You would have done best to kill me in the street! Admit that I frighten you! Admit your fear!"

"Well anyone would get a fright when you yell and jerk around like that!" she suddenly yelled back at him. Eric stepped back from her, surprised. From the tenderness she's shown before, and her demeanor, he had not expected this hot temper.

The girl stood up and went back to the broken plate. As she grabbed a broom, he sat down on the bed, wondering. How could she not be afraid of his face? Even after learning that it was no burn?

"And who is Christeine, anyway?" she asked over her shoulder as she stood and went to a window, tossing out the pewter shards.

"What?" he asked, still in a daze.

"That was the name you kept saying," she answered, going to her cupboard and getting out the last two chipped plates. "Is she your wife?"

Eric laughed. "In my wishes," he whispered. "No," he said louder, "No, I am unmarried."

"Your sweetheart then?" she asked, putting what he now saw was sausages and eggs on the plates.

"I have no one," he answered roughly, "No woman on earth would want one such as me, can't you see that?"

"All I see is a man getting over a fever who is feeling sorry for himself," she said equaly rough. She handed him the plate, a napkin, and a fork. "Now eat this. You need to eat something. Though with your temper and ingratitude I should throw you out on the street." As the woman across from him ate her meal, he stared at his share. She looked at him and then to the plate. "It's not poisoned," he said.

"What?" he asked, looking at her.

She was chewing her food. She swallowed and answere,d gesturing with her fork, "You look at it as if it were poisoned, or like it'll attack you as soon as the tongs go in. It's perfectly good food," she continued, taking another rbite of hers, "Not spoiled. You rich aristocracy think too little of the common."

"I am not rich," he said.

"Oh," she said, setting her fork on the plate. She picked up the hole filled napkin on her lap, wiped her mouth, and said, taking full measure of him, "Oh yes, all beggars dress in fine silk shirts and pants made for dancing in parties."

"It is a costume," he said.

"Oh, then you are a theif?" she asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"I am a perfomrer," her said, now truly angry with this impertinent woman. "I have sung arias, composed several operas, and designed every set imaginable in the Opera Popular! I wrote the very Opera performed this night!"

"You mean last night" she stated.

"Last night? You mean this night," he said.

"No, Monsieur Maestro," she said, "Last night. It's been an entire day since I dragged you up here."

Eric gapped, "That's- That's impossible!"

"No," she said, "it's been a day. As I've said before you have suffered form a fever. And I highly doubt that you wrote the Opera for last night's performance."

"Why? Do you doubt my talent?" he snarled.

"No," she said, "Rumors say that the Phantom wrote it," she stood up and took her empty plate to the rust lined sink. "And I don't believe that you could be the murderous Phantom whom people are raving about in every corner of Paris."

Eric set his plate on the bed as he stood up, and said as threateningly as he could, "And what makes you believe I am not?"

She stopped wiping the plate she was washing, and looked over at him. "You don't have the look in your eyes, for all your voice growls like a dog's."

He was speachless. How could this girl, with her quick tongue and temper, still be so trusting? So forgiving? He sat down again, and this time, he took the fork and plate, and slowly began eating what he now knew was his breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  
As he chewed the tough meat and the eggs, the girl left the room, going to another. He sat,contemplating how he would take his leave of this place, and where he could go to avoid the authorities 'America, perhaps' he thought, when he suddenly heard the beginning notes of the third movement in Brahms' 3rd Symphony. He stopped as he was lifting the fork, and looked over to his hostess. She was playing Brahms! Oh, and the sound, the sound was exquisite! He closed his eyes, and the music that flowed from the sweeping of the bow across the strings took his mind away. He imagined great tales in the notes. He saw a weeping woman running from an unrequited love; he saw an innocent man running from prison and death… He saw himself, running from heart ache and the burning Opera House.

As the girl went on to the 4th movement, he turned to her and asked, "How can you play like that?"

She smiled. It was not an uncomely smile. "You see I am not a common beggar either?" she asked in return. "I am also a performer, 'Phantom'. I was taught in my father's house. Before he died."

"I am sorry," he said.

"Don't be," she said, ceasing her playing and laying the violin on her lap. "It isn't your fault my father died of pnuemonia and left me with a stepmother with the personality of a shrew."

"It was a waste of talent," Eric said. "You should be in London, or Venice. You should be holding concertoes for royalty… not locked here in this dismal place."

**_Break_**

"Yes," she mused, "But would anyone take a daughter whose mother was a Japanese Geishia girl, and her father a dead man surrounded in scandal?" Celeste stood again and went to take her violin back to her room, when the man on her spare mattress asked, "And what is the name of this diamond in the rough?"

She smiled, and did not try to hide it as she returned and sat across form him again. "I am Celeste," she told him again. "Celeste Angeline Coupette. And you, Monsieur?"

"I am Eric," he said, taking her hand, to shake, "The Phantom of the Opera."

_'Again with this jest?'_ Celeste asked herself. Fine, she would go along with his joke for a time, untill he was willing to make his true identity known. "A pleasure," she said, "Monsieur Phantom."

"And you, Mademoiselle Diamond," he replied, smiling. It was not an uncomely smile.


	2. Hope

**Chapter Two: Hope**

Eric hid within Celeste's apartment for four more days after that. Though in his heart he yearned to return to the catacombs beneath the Opera House and retrieve his few belongings- and his secret treasure- he knew he could not. Not with the police still searching the premises for any sign of the Phantom. When ever Celeste left, to perform on the streets, he would pace and fret, thinking and planning, and when his hostess returned he would ask her always if the guard around the Opera had lessened. Every day was a "No." untill the fifth day after his escape.

Early that morning, he awoke to the sounds of fists banging on the door. He started, fearing that the girl had at last led the police to his hideaway, but as he lay still, Celeste ran from her room, and then, waiting in front of the door, a voice shouted, "I know you'rer in there, beggar girl!"

Celeste, took a deep breath and then, grabbing the door handle, she threw open the door.

"I knew you were here," grunted the fat man who stood in the hall. His clothes were patched, and his shirt appeared brown, but it could mearly have been extremely filthy, like the rest of him. "Where's my rent?" he demanded from her.

"I don't have enough money yet, Gaston," Celeste said, her voice hard with contempt.

"With all that noise you make on the street, that is no surprise," Gaston said, poking his head in the door. Eric hid stayed still where he still lay, covered by the sheets, seeing all from a small hole in the fabric. Then Gaston continued, "You'd do better if you used that pretty face of yours." Suddenly the piggish face turned, and Eric knew the creten saw him. "Well, it seems you have," said the swine. "Perhaps I can be your next customer?"

"That is a sick friend," Celeste said, her voice filled with suppressed rage. She pushed him back out the door with a quick shove and said, "Take no worry, you'll have your money soon."

"I better," Gaston said, his eyes roaming over her, "Cause the only thing I like better than money is pretty girls."

Celeste's only response was slamming the door in his face, and locking it tight. It was then that Eric threw the sheet off and sat up.

"Thank you," he said, "I am a dead man if I am found."

"I did that for both our sakes," she replied, grabbing a chair and sitting in it. She put her elbows on herr knees, and her head in her hands, and started to cry. Eric's chest tightened at the sight of this por creature in such despair. He got up and grabbed the other chair, and sat across form her.

"Celeste?"

"I hate this palce!" she screamed, raising up and looking him, her eyes red and cheeks wet with tears, "Everyday I go out, and I play with my heart and soul, and those snobs walk by, sneering at my torn clothes and my dirty fingernails and my skin." She wipped her eyes, and her nose, on her long sleeve, "And yet no matter how hard I play, I get nothing! Even that walking mound of dog turds lords over me…" she wipped her eyes again, and looked back at Eric. He only started at her.

"I must look disgusting," she said, getting up and fidgetting her hands. "Well I'm sorry, but this is what I am… this is where I belong now."

"No," Eric said, getting up and taking her hand in his, "You belong on in London or Italy. You belong on the stage, you belong-" he smiled, as the thought finished formulating in his mind, "You belong in an opera's orchestra."

"You're mad," she said, trying to take her hand away, but he held fast. "Who would accet this," she said, gesturing to herself.

"With the best frocks and bath, you could rival any musician in all Europe," Eric said. He pulled her to the window, where the sun streamed in, and he said, "I told I am not rich, and that is true, for only the rich accuire all they desire. I am, however, wealthy. And with my wealth, you can strip of this beggar's life. And in return your success will be my redemption."

She looked at him quizzically.

_"Flowering child, my starving artist,  
You shall find your glory.  
Hear my plan for your hopeful furure,  
My plan for our second chances._

_Come, my little starling  
Whose song falls on deaf ears.  
You shall be caged no longer,  
For your hope is here!"_

**_Break_**

As a rat squeaked by, and her shoes slqueched with each step, Celeste couldn't help but ask herself why she was here, under the burnt Opera Populare, walking in muck, following a man who was obviously deranged. Still, his voice echoed in her mind. With a voice like his she would have followed him anywhere, even Hell, if he wanted her to. And as she crunched on the glass, and exited the secret passage, into the scene she saw, she fered that she might have.

Before her was a mist covered underground lake. To the left, rising slightly up, were the remains of what could have been an elaborate play set. Candelabras lined the walls, some even seemed to sit in the middle of the water, and alcoves hid a sitting room, a dress maker's dummy (whoms face was the extreme likeness of a beautiful woman) and a bed framed in the shape of a large peacock, and curtains erved as door for these alcoves. The stairs and floor were covered in shattedered glass, like the entrance to the passage.

"Eric…" Celeste said, her heart sinking like a stone into water, "Why have you brought me here?"

"This was my home," Eric said. He climbed the stair, and looked around. He entered the sitting room. Celeste followed, but stayed on the stairs as she watched him pick a white half mask up form the table. Slowly, but with great familiarity, he put it on the scarred half of his face. Celeste's breath caught in her throat. What was he doing? What was he proving? It could not possible be true…

"Do you doubt me now, Celeste?" Eric asked her. He walked back to her, one terribly slow step after another. "D you understand now that you have helped, and followed, a living ghost?

Do you see? I am the Phantom of the Opera!"

"You're mad," she whispered.

"Will you run?" he asked her, his pace quickened, he stepped right up to her and loomed over her. "Will you escape and lead police to me? I am a killer, a kidnapper, a monster!"

She swallowed, and looked him in the eyes, before she ripped the ask form his face and said, "You might be a talented singer, you might be even be eccentric, but I refuse to believe that you are a murderer."

He laughed. His laughed echoed off the dripping walls. "What makes you so blind to what I am?"

"If you were the cold blooded demon rumors say the Phantom is, you would have killed me the morning you gave me your name."

He just looked at her. His mouth moved, trying to decide either to smile or snarl. He ended up smiling, and saying, "You live blinded, then, girl. Very well, keep the truth in darkness. Stay blind.

_Close your eyes, for your eyes  
will only tell the truth,  
and the truth isn't  
what you want to see.  
In the dark it is easy  
to pretend  
That the truth is what it ought to be…"_

Celeste's mind threatened to fog over like the lake, hearing him sing to her again. She closed her eyes and refused to give in to the fog. After her head was clear she looked up at him and said, "Fine. You are the Phantom."

"You condescende me, like I am a child?" he asked, his anger obviously forming.

"No, I humor you. And I am sick of quarreling." she said, crossing her arms. "Now, whatever you have come here for, get it. I still want a few hours to play on my corner."

He laughed again. "Very well, but my dear, your days of performing on the street will be over when we leave this place." he went into the room with the bed, and closed the curtain. She heard nthing at first, but after waiting twenty minutes, she heard stone scraping on stone, and a something heavy hit the floor. Then, as she held her breath, Eric emerged, throwing the curtain back, one arm carrying a chest.

"Forgive the delay," he said, stepping out and back into the sitting room, "I had to change." She had noticed. He dressed now in a clean white suit of only the finest make, and he had a simple black mask covering his face, and he carred a case in his hands. He set it down on the table, and beckoned her to come to him. With her fists balled up at her sides, she did.

"This," Eric said, gesturing to the suit case as if he were a showman, "Holds every cent I have saved for ten years. I had planned ot use it to fund my…" he hesitated, and when he spoke again, he almost lost the allure to his voice, 'My honeymoon with my former beloved. But now, I have a new vision, thanks to you, my dear Miss Diamond."

"Have you reached senility in a few short minutes?" Celeste asked, "That;s not my name."

"It is now." Eic said. He took her hand and led her to the bedroom alcove, and opened up a chiffarobe and a dressing cabinet. Both contained magnificent garments of all sizes and colors… And they only smelled a tiny bit like smoke. As Celeste carefully ran her calloused fingers over the fabrics, Eric said over her shoulder, "With you as my new pupil, we shall leave this God forsaken city, and make a new home and way foor ourselves. Before the year is out, you will be playing in the orchestra- nay, solos on the stage- at the Vittoria Theatre in Venice Italy!"

Celeste managed to pull herself from this fantasy long enough to turn to Eric and ask him, "ANd if I am to be 'Miss Diamond', then who are you?"

"Call me," he siad, with flourish of his cape, and donning a white top hat to match his suit, "Senore Angeli!"

**Authoress's Note:  
**Sorry for the delay, but here's the new chapter. ANd if you like this, check out my anime version of Phantom: Chaos of the Opera!


	3. Venice

**Authoress's Note:  
**Thanks, proudmaxfan, for pointing that error out. From now on, The Phantom's name will be spelled correctly. Enjoy this next chapter.

**Chapter Three: Venice**

Celeste stood at the great windows that overlooked the magnificent, almost magical, city of Venice. It's canals reflected the lights both lining the streets and in the night sky. It seemed like the stars had shone brighter here than they ever did in Paris. Infact, she was still thinking about that last morning in Paris. After they had taken the money from it's hiding place under the Opera Popular, Erik had set them up- temporarily- in very lovely hotel rooms while he arranged for carriages to pick them up in the morning, and to have her clothes- freshly laundered- delivered ahead of them to their new rooms in Italy. Then, that morning as Celeste, dressed no longer in rags but in a very nice dress of palest powder blue and matching feather plumed bonnet, waited for their bags to be loaded, she took some money ("Your allowance", Erik had said) from her new purse and bought a newspaper.

As Erik shouted commands of "Be careful with that, you idiots!" and "You will more then pennies if you drop those," Celeste scanned the news in the front pages. Just something about the Restoration in the United States… The Phantom had yet to be captured… One on the bottom caught her ttention. 'Viscount and Singer Wed'. Apparently, the Viscount de Chagny had wed an old childhood sweetheart. A woman whom had sung in the Opera… A girl named Christine Daae.

"Christine?" Celeste whispered to herself. Could this be the same woman Erik was calling for when he was sick? When he was asleep? Even now, when he'd sleep she would wake to hear him calling that name 'Christine'. "It can't be," Celeste said. But then she looked at the photos on the botom, under the article. The Viscount was very goodlooking, and the woman... Celeste couldn't compete with this woman. This picture alone radiated beauty! It would be frightening if the woman were ther in person. No wonder Erik dreamed of her. But why should such an idea make Celeste feel tightness in her chest. Why did the thought of Erik pledging devotion to this woman, who had so obviously rejected him, make her want to retch her breakfast?

"Mademoiselle Diamond," Erik called to her. "Time to shake the dust of this city off our feet."

"Right," Celeste said, looking up at him, smiling, tossing the periodical in the gutter.

That had been four months ago. As soon as they had reached Venice they went to Erik's contact in the city, and the manager of the Vittoria Theatre, and let her audition. She was hired on the spot.

Tonight she would play third chair violin in the orchestra as the theatre performed Carmen. She and Eric had practiced in the weeks leading to opening night. He would sing, while she would play her part of the accompaniment. As she stood at her windows and thought about the incoming performance, Celeste knew she owed so much to Erik… But she found she was still very unhappy.

"Why aren't I happy?" she asked her transparent reflection in the window.

**_Break_**

Erik finished his preenings without the use of a mirror. He was looking forward to this night for ages. All his preparations and his new hopes were resting in Celeste (Miss Diamond Hitoshima, as all knew her now). He would hide in the most secretive box in the house, Box 2. It wasn't as close to the stage as he was accustomed to, but it gave him a good view of the orchestra.

Erik could still hardly get over the luck he had had in not only discovering Celeste, but in getting out of Paris. He had had to cover his face in bandages while in their carriage when they had passed a police check point. Thanks to an old friend he had in Paris- one of few left- he had been warned that the police had been looking in all carriages in roads leading out of the city so they could arrest The Phantom, if he fled. Luckily Erik passed by, with his bribed driver able to answere that the tow passengers were a honeymooning couple. When they had inquired about the bandages, the driver also said that the husband had been injured in an accident in a wx factory.

" He's a candle maker," the driver had said. "If he makes good enough money to pay me, I wouldn't care what he was, honestly." Erik didn't appriciate that remark, but he still overpaid the twit for getting him past the checkpoints.

Now, Erik took his new blonde wig and placed it on his head. Then, satisfied at last, he walked briskly across his rooms to the door that separated his living quarters from Celeste's. "My dear Miss Hitoshima," he called as he knocked on the door.

"Come in," Celeste said. Erik opened it and took his measure. She was stunning in a slimm black dress. The sleaves were cut short so as not to interfere with her playing, and the skirt fit her hips to avoid being too voluminous, yet it's skirts also swirled out to avoid being too provocative. Then again, the way it displayed her slendar shoulders and… other things, might defeat that purpose.

"You're a vision," he said, approaching and taking her small hands in his.

"You're being nice, Seniore Angeli," Celeste said, smiling, and lowering her green eyes.

"You should be glad that I am nice now, since I will brate your mistakes after the show," he said, raising a finger.

"That is if I make any," she said, taking her hands back and walking around and behind him, to pick up her violin case.

"You are not to touch anything," he called to her, rushing to take her case himself. "I do not want your hands to be injured, or else you cannot play."

"Then you shouldn't have been holding them earlier," she said. She reached out and grabbed the handle to the case he held, "Give me my violin, since I need it as well as my hands."

"I will carry it for you," Erik insisted.

"I can carry it myself," she replied, her voiced edged with annoyance and anger. "I've been doing it since I was eight."

Though he enjoyed these games, neither had time for it tonight. "If you insist," and he let go. She had been pulling so hard that she staggered back a bit before she regained enough balance to keep from falling over. He couldn't help but laugh. "Have you ever been told you that you are quite pretty when you're angry?"

"Have you ever been told you're annoying?" She spat back. "Let's go, we'll be late." He continued to chuckle lightly as he followed her into the sitting rooms in front of both their bedrooms. From a coat rack, he reached to take Celeste's coat and help her into it when she set down her case and grabbed it first. "I can do this too," she said, shrugging her arms into the sleaves.

"As you wish, Diamond," he said, taking his cloak and tophat down, and reaching for a cane that was propped against the wall.

"Don't smirk at me," she said, getting her case and heading for the door.

"I can smirk if I want," he replied. He cut her off in front of the door and reached for the knob, "May I at least open the door for you, or would you like to add juggling to you repetior?" she sighed and let him open the door, and both were silent as they continued down the stairs and out of the gala Hotel D'Flora.

In the carriage to the theatre, Erik kept his eyes on his pupil. He always asked himself why he teased her so much when he wasn't being the stern teacher. But as he watched her, her eyes darting about as she watched the buildings and people they passed, holding her violin caseas close as a mother holds child, he supposed it was because sometimes she could be so overly serious. He knew that kind of seriousness. He was guilty of it, too, sometimes.

She looked over at him, "What?" she asked. He said nothing.

"Stop looking at me like that," she demanded. "Why are you smiling? What'sso funny?"

"You, at the moment," he replied. "Can I not look on my prodigy with satisaction? Can't a teacher look at his pupil and be proud of her?"

Her cheeks went pink under her makeup, making the shade of the peach blush already on her cheeks a deep rose red. Finally, she smiled back. "Fine. But don't let your ego swell up so big it can't fit through the doors." She looked out the window again and declared, "I shall be so magnificent tonight that theaudence will cheer for the orchstra to do the encore, instead of the actors."

"Now who's ego is swelling?" Erik asked her.

**_Break_**

The performance was wonderful. Erik in the balcony, and Celeste in her chair in the orchestra pit paid attention throughout every act. The only thing that went wrong, at least to Celeste, was that at one point she went a little flat after intermission, but she caught it as quickly as she could. When it was over, as the audience deafened the building with their applause, Celeste looked up to the box her tutor had been in. He had already slipped out. Before she knew it, she had been swept to the great reception being held for opening night. She had just gotten a glass of champagne, when three of her fellow instrumentalists swarmed over her.

"_Dear Diamond your simply glowing!  
Your talent is beyond compare_." They all said (sung).  
**"**_You must have been taught well,  
To make strings sound like bells."_

A young man on her left asked, "_If only I had your master_,"

"_Then say what you want to ask her_!" insisted an older gentleman behind her.

"_Can you ask him to be my tutor too_?" asked the young cellist.

"Um," Celesete stalled, looking around, seeing an excuse to leave. Then a young woman, one of the people serving refreshments, came up to her.

"Seniora," said the girl, "This is a note for you."

"Thank you." she said, shaking off the men. She turned so they couldn't look over her shoulder, and looked at he note. It was from Erik, he was waiting for her in under the draperies in the far right corner of the room. She crumpled the note and turned to the gentlemen behind her. "Excuse me," she said, "I have a bit of a headache, I need to move away form these lights." and she backed away to the dark corner.

As she stood there, she heard his voice whisper in her ear, "You were flat after intermission."

"Only for a minute," she whispered back.

"It was long enough," he said. "We will need to practice as soon as we return."

"Do we?" she asked, "I'm exhausted."

"There is no rest for those who wish to be master musicians," he said.

Celeste sighed. "Alright. What is my punishment? Play the second act allover again?"

"For that remark, you shall play the entire opera again," he said angrily.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded. People near her looked at her with raised eyebrows. She laughed and looked down, actign as if she were studying her shoes with great interest. Then she whispered to Erik, "What happened to your cheerful mood? I thought you were 'proud of your prodigy'?"

"I was," he said, "Until you nearly botched the entire production."

"You have more moodswings than a pregnant woman," she said. "This is about more than a missed note, isn't it?"

Erik was quiet for a minute. She feared he had disappeared again. Then, she felt his hand on her shoulder. His grip tight. The touch made her heart start beating hard in her chest. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck were standing on end. "My past is trying to catch up with me," he admitted. She felt his breath as he whispered into her ear, "A wretched woman from Paris comes to sing here next week."

"Who?" she asked.

_**Break**_

He told her later, back in the hotel. In her lavish rooms, under light of candles. She sat in the side of her bed, he told her. "She is a nuisance, and the worst diva my ears have had the misfortune to hear. Her name is Carlotta Gudicelli."

"I take it then she isn't another former lover," Celeste said. Was that a hint of gladness in her voice.

Erik laughed. "Of course not. I would have to be blind to love that mule. Actually, I did murder her lover."

"In a duel?" Celeste asked. "That's nothing to be afraid of."

"No," Erik said. "I strangled him the night the Opera burned."

"Not again," she sighed.

"It's true," he insisted. "And this putrid woman has seen me, and she most certainly would still crave my blood as retribution for Piangi." he felt himself begin to sweat. His breathing grew haggard. His mind filled with all that would happen of he were arrested. These fears mingled with memories of the abuse he had experience at the hand of the gypsies… "I couldn't endure that whip again!" he cried out again, grabbing the sides of his head. "I can't! I can't!"

"Eirk!" Celeste cried, "Stop, you're getting worked up for nothing. You're not a killer!"

He grabbed her shoulders and roughly shook her. "Do you still cling to your own eception?" he hissed. "You still refuse to believe who I am!"

"Let go of me!" she yelled at him. "Erik you're hurting me!"

"Open your eyes!" he commanded her, "I am a murdere and a monster!"

She wrenched an arm free and slapped him hard. He let go of her and raised his hand to his cheek. They were both breathing hard. His panic had subsided. He dared to look at her. Tears of fear were in her eyes.

"Celeste…" he whispered, reaching to wipe her cheek. She hiccupped, and he stopped his hand short. She turned around and reached for her table.

She picked up a handkerchief and, sniffling, said, "Look at you, you're crying." she started clearing away tears he hadn't known he was shedding.

He swallowed and croaked, "So are you."

"I'm fine," she said. When she had dried his face she laid her hands in her lap.

"Celeste… I'm so sorry," he said, looking at her shoulders. He could see a small bruise or two where his fingertips had been. Had he held her that hard? "I-I didn't mean-"

"I've had worse," she said, forcing a smile.

"I have no right," he said. "I swore… I swore many things to myself after I met you. I swore I wouldn't make the same mistakes… I wouldn't hurt you or anyone else… and…" He looked in her eyes, he flet his throat close up. His chest felt like his heart was bleeding in it. He knew this feeling. Her own eyes, dark as emeralds in the light of the candles, looked at him with such concern and worry. He swallowed again, "And… other things."

She looked at him with confusion. He looked down form her face and saw that somehow her hands had gotten a hold of his. He closed his eyes and composed himself, letting his thumbs gently stroke the backs f her hands. " It is too late for our exercises tonight," he said, getting up, taking back his hands. "Tomorrow we will go over Carmen again, as well as prepare for next week's Riggoletto." He strode to the door that separated them, and said, over his shoulder, "Good night, Celeste."

Before he closed the door, he heard her say softly, " Good night, Erik."


	4. Friends and Foes

**Authoress's Note:  
**Thanks, Kiribilus. I'll try and incorporate more singing. The tough part for me is finding the right places for people to break into song. Anyway, I also wanted to point out to you, and everyone else, that Celeste doesn't sing. That will be explained in Chapter Five.

Brief reminder, anything sung is down alone, by itslef, and has "_a_ ", while anyhting thought has '_a_ '

And as to how Erik will redeem himself… Who knows? On with the show!

**Chapter Four: Friends and Foes**

That night was quickly forgotten. Everyday Celeste spent the majority of her time practicing for the next show, both at the theatre and the instant she returned to the hotel. The week passed, with the entire cast and hands of the Vittoria waiting earnestly (and Erik in dread) for the arrival of Seniora Gudicelli. In fact, the lady did not even show on the day she was expected. All had stood in the grand reception hall from the morning until nearly midnight, but she never showed. Celeste was hoping, for Erik's sake, that this feindly soprano had changed her mind.

However, it wasn't to be. The woman arrived in the middle of rehearsal. As the orchestra and the leading tenor, Benedetto, were rehearsing 'La donna e mobile', Senior Fetine, the manager, came running in as if the Devil was at his heels.

"She is here!" he screamed, "Hurry! Hurry! She's just come and she's furious!"

Celeste, along with he colleagues, left their instruments and seats and hurried out of the pit and up between the seats and aisles, and out the doors to the reception hall. Then, the dancers, the other singers, and the backstage crew piled in from every door and direction as Senior Fetine led a woman into the theatre. She was of middling height, and had hair so red it was obviously either dyed or a wig. Her outfit was a mass of black colored fur and feathers. Her face showed her age, with crows' feet enhanced, rather than hidden, by her make up. It was possible this woman could have been a little pretty in her youth, but whatever had happened to her as an adult had done a great deal of damage to her looks.

"Madams and Monsiuers, Seniors and Senioras, please welcome out new first Soprano, Seniora Carlotta Gudicelli." Fetine said, letting go of his Carlotta's hand and clapping. Everyone started clapping wildly immediately… except Celeste, but she caught on and clapped hard.

"Thank you, thank you," Carlotta said in an overly thick accent. She shed her enormous coat (though why she needed it in summer was a mystery to Celeste) and curtsied, waving as if she were a lost queen returned to her kingdom. "I am-a honored to be-a welcomed so-a warmly een-a my-a mother country," she said, smiling. Then, in less time than it takes to blink, she burst into tears and wailed. "Oh! If-a only my-a darling Ubaldo were-a here! My heart, she weeps for-a all eternity!" then she produced a larger than life hanky and blew her nose. It was louder than a tuba, but made the same sound as one.

As she cried, she looked at the assembled crew and frowned, then said, "What are-a you looking at! Go away!"

As many stated to leave, a man from the orchestra, breaking from the throng and walking up to Carlotta said, "We all offer our condolences, Seniora." He was shorter than most everyone, but not a dwarf, and had a mustache that was styled to curl up under his nose. On his head sat a toupee that in no way whatsoever could have passed for his own hair. He took Carlotta's hand and kissed it, then said, gazing at her adoringly,

"_Bella Flora, great beauty of the age,  
O gracious muse,  
please do excuse their lack  
of concern.  
Please dry your tears from your  
spellbinding eyes.  
Instead let your smile return."_

The actress giggled, and asked Fetine, "Who ees this-a charming man? I hope I have-a the pleasure of sharing the stage with-a him."

"Terribly sorry, Seniora," Fetine said, "He is Enri Gaucinii, our accomplished first chair violinist."

"Oh, but I have dabbled in acting, my dear," Enri said. Carlotta giggled again.

'_Now I know why Erik hates her,_' Celeste thought as she turned to go back to rehearsal. But Fetine saw her black mane as she did, and called out, "Oh Seniora Diamond, come back!" Celeste winced. She turned back around and slowly walked up to Fetine, Enri, Carlotta, and her entourage.

"Seniora Gudicelli," Fetine said, waving his hand behind him to make Celeste hurry, "May I present a rising star in our humble theatre: Seniora Diamond Hitoshima."

"That's a stage-a name if ever I-a heard eet," Carlotta said, looking at Celeste as if she were dog droppings she'd racked off her shoes.

Fetine coughed, and stammered, "W- well, even so, she is a marvel. Not even twenty-one years old and she already has a talent that equals Senior Gaucinii."

"That's a tad overstating things, isn't it?" Enri said, huffing. "I do, after all, have far more experience and have worked harder than she ever has!"

"Pardon me, Senior, I didn't mean-"

"Then you shouldn't have spoken!" Carlotta spat, "This man has obviously more talent-a than this… Foreign girl." she turned to Enri, gave him a charming ( not really) smile and gushed, "Enri, would you honor me and-a show me to-a my dressing room?"

"Of course, oh magnificent Diva," he said, offering his arm and guiding into the building.

"Well…" Fetine said, twiddling his thumbs, "That went well." The sad thing was he sounded like he really believed it.

**_Break_**

Erik rapped his baton on the table yet again.

"No, no, NO!" he shouted, frustrated. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the he looked at Celeste and asked, "Why are you missing every note?"

"I'm sorry!" Celeste shouted, gesturing in the air with her bow. "I'm still mad at that… that… That ostrich and that penguin!" she had told him about the meeting. This did not bode well.

"Block them from your thoughts," he said, trying to sound patient. "If you desire to make beautiful music, you must push everything else form your mind- forget the world exists! Focus on the music- become the notes; be the score." he raised the baton again and she raised her bow, he took a deep breath, getting ready to sing 'Se ben rammentomi', again.

Celeste dropped her arm and declared, "It just makes me want to scream!"

Erik fell forward, put his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and sigh with exasperation.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," Celeste said, positioning her violin and bow again, "Here, I'm ready to play now."

"Forget it," Erik said, standing up and pacing,

"_You're of no mind to play tonight.  
If you let these morons get away with  
distracting you then  
you should burn that thing,  
and leave now,  
for they will have won."_

"I'm not quitting because a peacock and a pig think I'm a talking turd," Celeste said.

"Language, Madam," Erik said. He hated that she still spoke that way, even if it was only in private. "Or have those lessons been for nothing, as well?"

"To Hell with your lessons!" Celeste shouted. She leaped up and stomped to her bed and threw herself on it.

Erik sighed again and walked to his own rooms. He went to a table and poured himself a glass of cognac and downed it in a gulp. He set that down, hung his head a moment. What was he going to do with this girl? Christine was never this way. When La Carlotta had insulted Christine, the girl would often cry, but never speak like a drunk in a pub. He shook his head. He would not think of Christine. She wasn't his student, now, Celeste was. And like it or not, Celeste's tongue was harsh and sometimes vulgar because of her life on the streets. He could live with it.

He straightened his shirt and returned quietly to give his pupil one more chance, but as he opened the door, he saw her turned to the window, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at something in her hand. As Erik took another step, the floor creaked, and Celeste, looking like a child caught sneaking a taste of cake, hurried and put whatever she had been looking at back in the drawer of her bedside table.

"What do you want," she asked, raking a hand through her long tresses.

"I had thought to give practice one more try," he replied, walking to the edge of her bed.

"I can't concentrate," she said, shaking her head.

Erik's eyes looked from her to the drawer, then he asked, "Perhaps we can talk, then. A light conversation?"

She looked up at him, her eyes saying, 'You must be joking,' but she didn't say that. Instead she said, "I'm tired. I'd prefer to go to bed."

"Then good night," Erik said, walking out. However, he did not go to bed just then. Instead he waited until Celeste was asleep. Then, without stepping in the creaking spot, he snuck into her room. He crept to her bedside, and slowly opened the drawer. Years of subterranean life had helped to make his eyes see better in the dark than anyone else. He reached in and took out the one object in the drawer. A tiny picture, framed in a simple wood oval. It was no photograph, but a painting. In it was a young Japanese girl, with her face painted white, though her very dainty hands were golden, and her black hair bound up behind her head. She was wearing a white kimono decorated with the occasional pink or blue blossom. Her eyes were dark brown. Erik had to squint, because though the face couldn't' have been older than fourteen when she posed for this, it was identical to Celeste's. The only difference was that this child looked so innocent and happy, with her life ahead of her. Celeste had been treated far too cruelly, and would never be this innocent again.

Then, Erik had a thought. Could this girl have been Celeste's mother? And if so, why would she keep a picture of a mother she didn't know?

Before he could ponder this more, Celeste rolled over in her sleep. Erik placed the oval back in the drawer, and glanced at her, then moved like a shadow out of the room. Before he went to sleep that night, he took back his earlier thought. Celeste could look that innocent. When she slept.

**_Break_**

The days after that, though civil at home, were a nightmare in the theatre for Celeste. As Carlotta moved her things into the main dressing room and pushed and bullied Senior Fetine around, she endured Gaucinii's insults.

"Tells us, little China girl, don't you ever tune that rotting wooden box you call a violin?" he asked her that afternoon during a quick break.

"I don't know, do you shine that ball you carry on your shoulders? Oh, forgive me, that's your head."

The string section suppressed giggles as Gaucinii's face and neck folds turned red.

"Excuse me, I need to stretch my legs," Celeste said. As she went out the door, she couldn't help but feel like she was being followed. She looked over her shoulder, but didn't se anyone. She hurried on up the small staircase out into the backstage area. Suddenly, she heard a crash, and spun around. Sprawled and struggling to get up was a young boy, couldn't be more than sixteen years old. He had run into a pile of props.

Celeste, and three stagehands went to untangle him from the jumble. "What happened?" one of the men asked.

"I- I was just leaving to get some fresh air," said the boy. Celeste helped him to his feet.

"You look familiar," she said.

"Oh, I'm nobody," he said nervously, as the stage hands left them. "I'm just another member of the band, you might say."

"Everyone's someone," Celeste said.

"You certainly are, Miss Diamond." he said, smoothing his short, red hair.

"Well you know my name, what's yours?" she asked him, holding his arm.

"My name's Pierre," he answered, "I am not that well known, At least not like you,"

"What do you play?" Celeste asked him.

"_I play in percussion,  
Actually, that's not all.  
I'm supposed to play the tympani,  
But I dream of writing symphonies_," and he blushed as he added, "I also like to write stories."

"That's wonderful," Celeste said, delighted and surprised that a writer was hiding in their midst. "What kind of things do you write?"

"Well," Pierre said, "I know people are very keen on Gothic novels, or operas set in Italy or France or England, but… I like to write about other places."

"Like where?"

"Like America," he said with enthusiasm, "Or Russia. And Japan! Oh how I would love a tale from Japan. And… Unless I am mistaken, your name is Japanese, yes?"

She laughed, "Yes, it is."

"Then, are you? Truly?" he asked with hope in his eyes.

"Sort of," she answered. "I'm actually half French, too."

"Oh how romantic!" he exclaimed, looking at her, "I can picture it: An enchanting French maiden, taken in by a Samurai Lord, and-"

"Stop, stop, stop," she said, waving her hands in front of him, "Get your head out of the clouds. My father was French."

"But, I thought-"

"It's a long story," she said.

"Oh," Pierre said, looking at her with big puppy dog eyes. "I would love to hear it."

"Out of my way!" Carlotta bellowed as she stomped through the backdrops, coming on them like a terrible pink gale. "Someone send-a the Rice Girl and this-a snively child out of here." the red head commanded a pale looking man in spectacles.

"Madam, you speak disrespectfully to the greatest musician you will ever have the privilege to meet," Pierre said, looking at Carlotta like he was about to punch her nose.

"Oh, I have-a never insulted Senior Gaucinii," she said, not to Pierre, but to Celeste. Then she burst out laughing and pushed both youth and girl out of her way, her cronies following on her expensive heels.

"Why that excuse for a powder puff," Celeste seethed.

"_Diamond, Diamond,  
pay no mind to her_," Pierre told her.  
"_She's not worth the time it takes  
for an insult_."

Celeste sighed. "You're right. But since the Prima Donna is heading for the stage, we need to hurry back to our places," she picked up her skirt, and they dashed back the way they had come, not even stopping when Pierre kicked an overturned bucket, and staggered to catch up.


	5. An Alliance Forged in Music

**Authoress' Note:**  
Sorry it's taken so long to post this new chapter. I have the singing parts better integrated now, and I also have a many spelling corrections. Enjoy! 

**Chapter Five: An Alliance Forged in Music**

The performance went well, in spite of Carlotta's over emphasis on everything she sang and her inability to act. It was sad how everyone was given the misfortune of watching the red haired woman onstage while a red haired boy rushed here and there in the orchestra pit trying to play the timpani, the chimes, and the cymbals. No one except Celeste, now that she had met the multitalented boy.

Afterwards, as patrons and performers all swarmed around Carlotta to congratulate her on her comeback, Celeste stood in the most shadowed place she could find, standing a few feet from the door. She knew Erik would have come, in spite of his insistences that he would never et a foot into a theatre soiled by La Carlotta.

She wasn't disappointed. She felt his fingers on her shoulder as he whispered, "You were much better tonight."

"Thank you," she said, sipping her glass of wine. She stole a glance back to him. "Amazing how you can be invisible even wearing all white."

"I pride myself on it," he answered.

"Well, then may I toast you?" she asked, turning to him, "To my outstanding teacher, Signor Angeli."

As she and Erik smiled at the joke, a waiter heard them, and set his tray on a table and hurried off to tell the first person he saw, one of the young dancers. When the waiter whispered in her ear, she cried out:

_"Where is he?  
I must meet him!  
Where is he?"_

Senior Fetine heard the commotion, and hurried over.

(Fetine)  
_"What's all this shouting?"_

(Dancer)

"_Senior Angeli is with us tonight."_

By now the word had gone out, and singers, orchestra members, and a few patrons who'd heard of the reclusive man crowded around.

(Ensemble)  
_"Where is he?  
Diamond's Mentor!"_

(Cellist) _"Where is he?"_

(Alto singer)  
_"Where is the Master?"_

(Waiter)  
_"I heard Miss Diamond  
speak to him in the corner."_

The waiter pointed to where Celeste had her back turned, and people saw a tall man, his face hidden as he stooped to speak with his pupil. As others stared in awe, unable to move, Carlotta approached the equally awed Manager.

(Carlotta)  
_"Who dares to steal  
my limelight?"_

Fetine turned around and took Carlotta's hand.

(Fetine)  
_"Signora, you meet  
the master musician!"_

The crowd moved as one to accost Celeste and Erik. Erik looked over her shoulder just in time, and his eyes went wide in panic.

"Dear God, they've seen me!" he whispered.

Celeste turned, and Erik whipped out a handkerchief to cover his face.

"Diamond!" cried out Fetine, and people started jittering around them. "Diamond, introduce Signora Giudicelli to the Master!"

"Signor Angeli!" cried out many people in earnest.

Erik started coughing loud and hard as he covered his face with the handkerchief and his hands. Celeste knew what to do. She said, "Please, please he has a terrible cold." People backed off immediately. She continued, "I begged him not to come tonight- to stay home and rest! But he insisted…" she turned to Erik, took his free arm, and they began walking to the door.

A second hand took Erik's other arm. It was Pierre. Celeste looked afraid as the boy said, "Allow me to help you both to your carriage." Erik coughed, urging her to hurry up, and all three went on out.

When they stood in front of the carriage, Erik climbed in, and Celeste turned around to thank Pierre, but the boy said, "I know you and Master Erik must leave, but I had hoped it wouldn't be so soon."

Celeste's heart stopped. She gulped and looked into the carriage, at Erik. He let one blue eye peer out from between his fingers. He was afraid too. And angry. Immediately Celeste looked again to Pierre and asked, "How do you know his name?"

"I asked Signor Caltosse." he said. That was Erik's contact, who helped get Celeste into the theatre.

Without warning, Erik's arm shot out from the door, and pulled the boy inside, his hand covering Pierre's mouth before he could cry out.

"Get in now, Celeste!" Erik cried to her. She jumped up and inside, slamming the door. The driver took off for the hotel.

When they got to the hotel, Erik dragged Pierre behind him, as Celeste did her best to keep up, the skirts of her concert dress slowing her down greatly.

(Pierre, afraid)  
"_Why have you brought me here!  
What have I done?"_

"Erik stop! You'll hurt him!" Celeste begged him.

(Erik, to Pierre)  
_"Your cries are useless here!  
No one will come."_

"Erik, you promised me!" Celeste cried. They went in the staff entrance, and went up the stairs that the maids used to get to the rooms without being seen by guests. Erik threw open the door to their suite, and tossed the percussionist in, then loomed over him.

(Erik)  
_"If you dare to cry For help again,  
The Phantom of the Opera  
Will bring You to your end_!"

Pierre looked up at the imposing figure in the black mask, unable to move.

(Pierre)  
_"You are  
The Phantom of the Opera?"_

"He's not the Phantom of the Opera," Celeste said, breaking the spell of terror as she pushed Erik behind her and held out her hand to her young friend. Erik yanked her around.

(Erik)  
_"He must be gotten rid of!  
He knows who I am!  
I'm going to be arrested  
because of him._"

"He knows because you told him," Celeste said, "And if you keep spreading nonsense like that and rough up people, you will be arrested." She turned back to Pierre and grabbed one of his trembling hands, pulling him up. "Are you alright? I'm so sorry, he doesn't know his own strength, sometimes."

"He's real," Pierre mumbled, looking still at Erik, excitement mixing with the fear he had felt just seconds before. "Mother wrote me about the Opera Popular and now I know she was right! He's real! He's you!"

Erik looked like he was going to strangle him, but Celeste only sighed and led the young man to a chair, as she said, "God, not you too." she took Pierre's hands in hers and looked intently at him. "Pierre, look at me." he did. "Erik is_not_ the Phantom of the Opera. He is my teacher, and a bit eccentric."

Erik gave an objective snort behind her.

"And he's harmless." she added. "If he really were the Phantom, I would be dead, and so would you."

Pierre looked half inclined to believe her, but his eyes darted between her and the masked man near behind them. "B-But… The mask! Why does he wear a mask?"

"Because I choose to," Erik snapped.

"Because he's disfigured," Celeste corrected. "he was born with a scarred face, and he's ashamed with it," she looked back and said loudly, "But I think he's perfectly fine."

"How did you know my name?" demanded Erik, approaching them.

"I-I asked Signor Caltosse!" Pierre said again, panic rising in his voice, his hands clinging to Celeste's. "I heard you play for your audition, and I wanted to find out where you were staying, and who you were- both of you!" he looked at Celeste with apologetic eyes that were on the verge of terrified tears, "Oh Diamond, forgive me! I love you, I fell in love with your music when I heard it. I wanted to find you and court you and win your heart, but Signor Caltosse said, 'Good luck with that, boy. Once Erik finds a pretty student he never lets her go.' I didn't ask why that was because I knew your teacher was in love with you. If my love has cost-"

Celeste had started laughing, and let go of her friend's hands to cover her mouth, but nothing could stop her fit. In front of her, Pierre looked confused, and behind her, Erik looked shocked.

"Oh, oh Pierre, I'm sorry," she said, taking deep breaths as she laughed, less loudly now, "I'm not making fun of you, but how could you think that Erik was in love with me?"

Pierre's cheeks grew red. "Well… it's just-"

"Erik falls for singers, Pierre," she said. Erik put his back to them, and Celeste continued, standing up, "His last student was some singer, and she turned down his marriage proposal, and now he's teaching me, and not once has he tried to court me."

"Well… have you ever tried to sing?" Pierre asked.

"I sound like a tuba stuffed with dead fish when I sing," she said. "Erik is teaching me to perfect the violin. That is all."

It was surprising, but Pierre looked a little disappointed. If she didn't know better, she would have thought that he wanted to meet the Phantom.

_**Break**_

Erik's hand rubbed his chin. Is that what Caltosse had thought? That he'd fallen in love with Celeste?

It's not entirely unreasonable, said a part of Erik's mind. You were in love with Christine, who was your student. Now you are teaching Celeste.

'But I'm not in love with her,' Erik answered himself. He couldn't be. She had said it herself, she wasn't his type. Was she? He looked over his shoulder. Her long hair still had the red sparks in it that it had in her hovel back in Paris, except now it was glossy and clean. And her arms, bear except for the shoulders, were colored like honeyed cream. And her green eyes held a little mischief to them, but with a small secret sadness he could never explain.

No, he persisted, no. He couldn't fall in love. Not again, not with Celeste. Not with anyone. She would say differently, but he knew he truth; he was hideous. And no woman could love a man with his face.

Behind him, Celeste had pulled Pierre up from his chair, and now she put her hand on Erik's shoulder, pulling him out of his meditations. Then she said, "I know you don't want people to know the truth about you. I respect that, because even I don't know it all. But I would like the three of us, here, tonight to make an alliance."

"What?" Erik asked.

"Really?" Pierre inquired.

"Yes," Celeste said. "Pierre, you know Erik's name, and he fears anyone else knowing it. But we can promise each other that we will tell no one else. Yes?"

"Yes, Miss Diamond," Pierre said.

"My name's Celeste," she corrected him. "And Erik has already promised me that he won't hurt me or anyone else. I want us all to be friends," then she looked at Erik and said, "And we will start by telling each other the truth of our pasts. At least what we know. Agreed?"

Even if he could love her, Erik decided, it would only bring her grave misfortune.

"Agreed," both men said.

After that night, Pierre was a regular guest in Celeste and Erik's home. Sometimes he would bring his cymbals or one of the smaller drums and practice with Celeste, but more often than not he would just sit on the sofa or a chair, and listen with a rapturous gaze as his new companions practiced. He knew Erik had to be a master musician, but still, when he heard the masked man sing from Purcell's Dido and Aeneas, he was nearly knocked out of his chair. Though, when he had, Erik turned and scolded, "If you make another sound any time that music plays in this room, then consider your life forfeit!" It was an empty threat, they all knew, but Pierre still never dared to risk it.

One evening, as Celeste finished accompanying Dido's Lament, Pierre jumped to his feet and clapped fervently.

"What have I told you?" Erik asked the youth.

"But you just finished," Pierre pointed out. To Celeste he said, "And you were both wonderful. I wish the world could hear you both singing and… er, violining," he said, blushing.

As Erik covered his face in shame, Celeste laughed, "I'm not sure that is a word, but thank you." Then she took a ginning look at Erik and said, "But his singing is matched only by his skill on the piano."

"You play the piano, Master Erik?" Pierre exclaimed.

"Dear God," he sighed in reply.

"Oh, Monsieur, play! Please?" the young man asked.

"Now look what you've done," Erik said, turning to leave them both in disgust. But Celeste blocked his exit, spreading her arms across the door frame, and looked up at him, her eyes so dark they were almost black, instead of green.

"I'll play along with you," she said, trying to persuade him.

"I am of no mood," he hissed.

"Erik," she said, losing the lighthearted sound in her voice, "you can't lock yourself in silence and darkness. You have to let people in; learn to accept the human race." Then, voice low, she asked, "Please? Just play for us tonight?"

They stared at each other, both in a silent contest. Then, Erik said, "Very well, but you must play as if you stood on the stage before every dignitary imaginable."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said smugly.

_**Break**_

Celeste picked up her violin and Erik took a seat at the grand piano that sat in the middle of the sitting room. Pierre sat, his hands fidgeting as he waited to hear what beautiful sounds the two would make. All the while, Celeste smiled to herself. Her plan to break Erik free of his self-imposed bonds would work if things kept on at this rate. Ever since she had first allied herself to the eccentric musician she had hopes to reintroduce him to the world, for though he never told her the truth of his past, she knew something or someone had done something to him to make him feel so unloved and unwanted by humanity. And she was willing to do anything to help him heal.

"From what opera will you sing, Maestro?" Pierre asked, breaking Celeste's thoughts.

"I sing form no opera now," Erik said. "I wish to sing 'If Music be the Food of Love'. Do you know it?" he asked Celeste.

She thought he was evil for picking a song she'd never heard, "I'll do my best."

Erik smiled at her frustration, laid his fingers upon the keys, and before Celeste could position the bow, he started playing and singing:

_"If music be the food of love,  
Sing on, sing on, sing on!  
Till I am filled,  
Am filled with joy!  
For then my list'ning soul  
You move-_

_For then my list'ning  
Soul you move to  
Pleasures that can never cloy_.

His fingers didn't hammer on the keys, but seemed to glide over them gently and tenderly. Celeste knew she was supposed to be accompanying him, but she was like Pierre- looking and listening in awe of the beauty and magic that seemed to emanate from the man on the piano bench. Suddenly he looked up and into her eyes, and she froze as he continued, sounding seductive and adoring:

_Your eyes…  
Your mean, your tongue,  
Declare that you are music  
Everywhere…  
Your eyes, your mean, your tongue,  
Declare that you are music  
Everywhere._

_Pleasures invade  
Both eye and ear;  
So fierce- so fierce!  
So fierce, so fierce the transports are  
They wound.  
And all my senses feasted are!_

_And all my senses feasted are…_

Then, he sang acapella, but his eyes were still fixed on Celeste's face.

_Though yet, the treat is  
Only sound,  
Should I must perish, perish  
By your charms_.  
(playing piano again)  
_Though yet.  
The treat is only sound…  
Should I must perish, perish  
By your charms-  
Unless!_

He went still and silent, then he turned his face away from her, and with his voice a mix of agony and grief, yet still traced with desire, he went on:

_Unless… You save me…  
__Unless you save me in your arms.  
__Unless you save me…in your…  
__In your… arms……"_

Celeste was stricken silent and immobile by what she'd just heard and seen. Clumsily and slowly her mind searched for anything to express how his voice and skill had touched her soul, but she couldn't find anything. She realized no words could describe this feeling in her from having heard him… there would never be any words for it. All she could do was look at him, spellbound.

But when he lifted his head and looked to her, she found she could not look him in the eye again. She felt unworthy of his gaze.

It was Pierre who finally broke the silence. "M-Monsieur…I had no idea…" he said softly.

"I hardly play anymore," Erik said, closing the key cover. "It is amusing, sometimes." he walked by the humbled Celeste, and said as he exited the room, "I believe I will retire early tonight. Good evening." and the door closed behind him.

The two apprentices were still when their teacher was gone. Celeste had actually forgotten Pierre was there, until he touched her elbow and startled her from her trance.

"What?" she asked, realizing he had said something.

"I said…" Pierre replied, his face now devoid of color, and his eyes avoiding hers, "I said… you were wrong before."

"Excuse me?" she asked, confused.

"You said he didn't love you," Pierre answered. "You were wrong. And I, forgive me if I am mistaken, but I believe you love him too."

She was so shocked that she was again speechless. Pierre bowed and wished her a goodnight, then left her there, to be alone with the ghost of Erik's voice, and ponder at the sudden realization that she really had fallen in love with the man in mask.

**Note**

I own nothing. Please review, it helps me know if I'm doing good or not.


	6. Giving Account

**Authoress' Note:**  
Sorry, my Phantom fans, for the long wait. I've had school and several other projects eating my time, and I have only just gotten inspired to write on this because I bought the movie soundtrack. So, enjoy. 

Chapter Six: Giving Account

Five evenings later, when another performance had come and gone, the three sat in the silence of the front room, Celeste replacing a broken string, Erik going over the next performance's score, and Pierre fiddling with one of his drum sticks. As the rain fell down heavily outside, Pierre had a thought. "Celeste," he said, "I recall that you once said we needed to start our friendships with the tellings of our pasts, yes?"

Celeste looked at him from her work. Erik's back stiffened. "Yes," Celeste said. "I did."

"Then perhaps our friendship hasn't truly began, since I still know nothing of the two of you, and you nothing of me?" Pierre suggested.

"You're right," Celeste said, forming her own idea. Maybe this was a way of getting the truth form Erik. She set her violin on the table and turned to Erik. "Maybe you could go first, Master Erik? Perhaps you can begin our night of stories?"

Erik put the sheet music down a moment to answer, "There is nothing to tell. I was born, hated, given away to Gypsies, and treated like a dog until by good fortune I came here."

Celeste was disappointed, but Pierre picked up the slack, saying, "Then I shall go next. Well, in all honesty my life was quite dull. I lived in the French countryside with my mother until I began writing songs and short stories when I was ten years old. My mother was convinced that I was destined to be the next Amadeus Mozart, so she put back enough money to send me here when I turned fifteen. The theatre was not in need of a composer, but I didn't want to dissappoint Mother… Now I play percussion."

"Hardly page turning suspense," Erik muttered.

"Well, I think you told it beautifully," Celeste said to her young friend.

"What about you, Miss Celeste?" Pierre asked eagerly. Celeste's eyes went a little wide. She hadn't thought about telling her life's story. She would have kept silent, too, but Erik had other plans.

"Indeed, what about you?" Erik asked. "You seem so eager for stories, let's have yours."

Celeste gulped nervously, and looked around to her companions' faces. "Very well. But…" she dreaded this, but knew no way to explain her life without it, "But in order to fully understand, I need to begin with another tale."

"Really?" Erik asked skepticly.

"Is it about your parents?" Pierre asked excitedly.

"Yes," Celeste said slowly. "Yes it is."

**_Celeste's Narration_**

The truth is I've never been entirely sure of the truth. My father used to put me to sleep with his version, for he made it sound like a fairy tale, but my stepmother told me another version after father's death. I suppose both may have a part of the truth. Tonight, however, I will tell what I believe happened.

Nearly twenty four years ago, a young man named Darwin Coupette sailed from his lavish estate in France to the island of Japan. He had a great talent for painting, and he yearned for new subjects. A friends of his was planning on going to the foreign land on business, so Darwinasked to join him. When he arrived he was captivated by the exotic beauty of the people…the women most of all. His friend, a man called Mister Sharp, purposed that the young man go to one of the geisha houses, take one of their women, and use her as subject and… companion. The poor boy, he did as Sharp suggested, but when he went to the house of ill repute, he found something quite extraordinary. One of the girls had come to them that very morning, and was still- according to the man running the brothel- a virgin. Darwin took one look at the girl and loved her. He took girl, Kiku- whom he called Chrysanthemum- with him to a house that overlooked the port of Nagasaki, and there she became his lover and his model.

Allow me to pause, and tell you that Darwin, though a man of great passion when he chose, was also very fickle. After four months, he grew bored with Japan, and young Kiku. In fact, upon receiving a letter from Odelle, his fiance in France, he set sail immediately to marry her, leaving Kiku the house, the servants, and all his debts. One year after Darwin left, the manager of the brother came to Kiku's door, demanding she return. For her former lover's many debts were piling ever still. Kiku refused, and said that before he had left, she and Darwin had wed. She told him that now she was a Catholic, and if she were to return to the brothel, her soul would go to hell. Her old employer was furious, and demanded proof. So he contacted Sharp, and the two planned to prove Kiku a liar by having Sharp speak with her. To their dismay, she only swore more to being Darwin's Christian wife, and showed them the child that she had born- Darwin's child- as final proof.

Sharp immediately contacted Darwin. He denied everything, and said the girl must have been so innocent that she believed being with one man would be considered a marriage. The young man and his wife both knew that if any one else were to discover this mistake, their reputations would be ruined. So in order to uncover Kiku'sdeciet, they both sailed back to Japan. When Kiku saw Darwin coming up the path to the house with his flaxen haired wife, she knew she was trapped. And so she put her child on the bed, then she took her own life. When Darwin, his wife, and Sharp entered, Darwin cried out in horror, and fell to the ground, clutching the dead woman. He might have been fickle, but a part of him had loved her once. Not long after, the baby started to cry. Darwin released Kiku's cold body, and picked up the child. It was a girl, with eyes as green as his own, but with wisps of black hair on her head. The young man vowed that moment to raise the baby he had created, and thus honor the memory of the girl he had wronged.

I, of course, was that baby. And my years with father were, I believe, the happiest I had ever had. He loved me, encouraged my budding interest in music, taught me to ride a horse, even gave me lessons in fencing. I loved my father, and I know he loved me. However…Odelle, my stepmother, was jealous. She put up with my presence at first because she believed that father pitied me, and she had hope that when she gave him children, I would be forgotten. She tried many times to have children, but no matter what, while their friends in high society were planning marvelous parties to celebrate the births of their children, and other women's bellies ballooned out, hers was ever flat. The fualt ould not be my father's, obviously, so it meant one thing. She was barren. That made her hate me even more, for now she had hatred for my dead mother, who had given Father his only child.

After my eighth birthday, my father started growing sick. It began as a tightness inhis chest, but it soon became a cough. That cough grew worse with each passing day, and he grew weaker as well. One day he could not leave his bed, and had his meals brought to him. In little more than a month, he was no longer eating or sleeping, and delusions every moment. I don't know the precise moment he died. I was kept away when he became bedridden. I only know that one afternoon, Odelle came to my room, and said with far too much satisfaction in her voice, that my father was dead, and that until I came of age, she was in charge of all my father's estate.

Less than a day after he was in the ground, Odelle had my things carted away or destroyed. She took my finer dresses and had them burned, she took my toys and ripped them to shreds. Then she grabbed my hand and dragged me up to the attic- a horrid place with one window and the roof slanting so I could barely stand- and she told me I would sleep there from now on.

Now, for all she hated me, she was not without some human decency. She gave me some clothes- but never any as fine as hers- and food. She even allowed me to have my violin, father's last birthday gift to me. However, any simblance of kindness was not without it's purpose for her. She would throw lavish parties and have me come down and play for her guests, like a wind up toy, then she would send me away again to my dark prison.

I lived under her tyranny for six years. I suppose she wanted to crush my spirit, and in truth she had succeeded, but still I kept living. I went along every day, every year, for no other reason than this: I wanted to honor Father. Deep down, my heart was convinced that he would want me to live, to find a way out. For the longest, I couldn't think of a way. I at least still lived in my own home, and that was good enough. But then… One night I was entertaining my step-mother's guests with some music, as usual, when I happned to notice a man speaking with Odelle. He kept glancing at me, and smiling in such a way that my blood ran cold in my veins. When I finished playing, I tried to return to my room, but Odelle stopped me, and pulled me aside. She informed me, her overly painted smile venomous, that Father's old associate, Sharp, wanted me as his mistress.

The very thought of that disgusting man, touching me and looking at me that way, made me want to retch. I refused to go, but Odelle laughed and said I had no choice. I was still two years from being old enough to called an adult, she was still my guardian, and she had already given Sharp her consent. I would be taken the next morning to be his personal whore, she said. She told me I was exactly like my mother… and with any luck I would end up like her, too.

That final insult is what drove me to action. After she, and all the servants, were asleep, I gathered up one change of clothes and my violin, then I escaped the attic, and ran away.

You must be thinking, 'If it was soeasy, why didn't you do it before?'. I didn't do it because, as I said, I was still living in my home- Father's home. I couldn't abandon it. But when Odelle made her deal with Sharp, I knew I would never have my home. My only options were to go with him and become his harlotte, kill myself, or run. The first choice was worse than death, and the second would only give Odelle what she wanted more than anything. That is why I finally chose to escape.

After that, ther isn't much. I taveled to Paris, and played my violin on the street, using what little money I had or made to rent the room where… Where Eric discovered me.

That, gentlemen, is my story.

**_End Narration_**

Pierre looked at her like a child whose's just had the most fantastic and magic filled bedtime story told to them. Erik, however, looked at is young pupil without any expression. Infact his gaze was a little too intense for her. She got up and covered her mouth, giving a fake yawn.

"Oh, excuse me, gentlemen," she said. "I think I'll retire. Goodnight." and she went to her rooms.

After her door closed, Pierre leaped up on his feet, and said, "I think I'll go home and rest, too. Good night, Master Erik."

As Pierre reached the main door, his hand just about to grasp the handle, Erik called, "Boy."

Pierrer paused. He asked over his shoulder, "Yes, Sir?"

"Do you believe her story?" the older man asked.

Pierre thought a moment. Then he said, "Why shouldn't I? It's Celeste's." Then he also left.

**_Transition_**

Celeste brushed her hair absentmindedly as she sat on the edge of her bed. But soon she grew tired of it, and set her brush down, then opened the drawer of her bedside table, pulling out the miniature painting. She looked at the face that resembled her own. Then put her fingertip on the signature on the bottom.

_"Wishing he were somehow here again,  
Wishing he were somehow near…?"_

Celeste jumped and held her treasure to her chest as she looked up at Erik. He just seemed to appear to like magic, leaning on the wall, half his face in shadow.

"You know this is indecent?" she snapped. She shoved her painting under a pillow, and grabbed her robe from the floor.

_"He was once your one companion  
He was all that mattered,"_ Erik stepped from the shadows and walked over to stand across from her.  
_"He was once a friend and father,  
Then your world was shattered."_

"How dare you mock me?" she yelled.

"I do not mock you," Erik said. "I just find it hard that to accept that two of my students should have such similar pasts."

"Oh please," Celeste said, sitting on her bed again, holding her robe ight around her. "Did your precious Christine live with a cruel spiteful witch? Was her childhood ripped away like mine was? She was lucky- I didn't have an Opera house for a playground! I on a rotting mattress with rats while she probably shared that ridiculous feather monstrosity with you under the Popular!"

He seethed and grabbed a vase, then smashed it in the ground in front of her feet. "Do not dare speak of what you do not know- or even want to accept!" he shouted at her.

"Don't accuse me of lying!" she countered. "At least I gave an account of myself! You don't have even the courtesy to say where you were born!"

As Celeste drew her legs up and put her arms around her knees, Erik grabbed the false hair on his head and sighed, turning away from the infuriating woman. He took a few deep breaths, then dropped his hands. "I was born in Germany." he mumbled.

Celeste looked up, her hair falling in her face, like a veil. "What?"

Erik whirled around, stepped over the broken pottery, and sat on the edge of her bed. "I was born in Germany. It was so long ago, I can't even remember the town I came from."

Celeste leaned in, "What about your parents?"

"My father was mason," he said. His face went blank, as usual, but his eyes became very pained. "My mother was a shrew. My first emeories are of her screaming whenever I came near her. She would throw a sack cloth mask at me, and order me out."

"That's terrible," Celeste said.

"My Father was worse," Erik replied. "Everything I did resulted in a beating form him. If I cried, if I spoke, if I asked for food, he would hit me. He called me demon, monster, and beast. Other children would throw rocks at me, and thei parents' said my mother must have committed a great sin to be cursed with me."

"My God," Celeste whispered. "How cruel."

Erik looked down, "My mother's one prayer was to be rid of me. It was answered when a troop of Gypsies came, looking for work. The day before they left, my father tied a rope around my neck, and led me to them, saying I was 'the Devil's Child', and he pulled my mask off to show them my face…" his voice faltered a bit, then he continued. "Without a second thought, he handed them the rope, took the money they offered him, and he left me with those vile vermin! Like you, my life was hell on earth, after that. I was paraded and whipped in front of strangers as the pig who was my 'handler' collected coins. I wanted to die, but I couldn't. My body refused to…" his hands clentched into fists, the knuckled turning white.

A tear crept from Celeste's eye, as she her mind conjured up a sad, poor boy, underfed pocked with scars. "How did you escape?"

Erik was quiet. She thought he wouldn't answer her, until he said what she least suspected. "I murdered my guard."

She gasped, then bit it back.

"The night we stopped in Paris, after the crowd had gone, he was gathering the coins the people had dropped. He did not have the rope in his hands… It was so easy to wrap it around his neck…" he whispered. "I knew he was dead when I heard a snap in the back. I let him go… but a girl had seen everything. When she cried out, the other men were coming. That girl opened my cage and pulled me out, taking me to the Opera house. She hid me in the chaple first, to escape the men chasing us. Then she led me to the nether regions of the Popular."

Celeste waited two minutes for him to start talking again. Then she asked, "Then what? Why have you stopped?"

Erik stood up and leaned down, looming over her. "I told you that already. I became the Phantom. But you do not believe me..." With his white mask and the shadows of the lamp flickering, he seemed a different man from the one who taught her everyday. He leaned in closer, one hand braced on the wall behind her head, the other just inches from her thigh. Her heart started beating faster, and she had to force herself not to shiver.

His smile made it more difficult, though. He asked, his voice deep, and cold as death, "Do you now?"

Part of her said yes. It wanted to cry and scream- yes! Yes I believe it!- but something in her told her not to. That part told her that if she were to do that, then the man who was her teacher would be gone. She couldn't lose that man.

"I believe…" she said as she used every bit of her strength to rid her heart of fear, "That your parents ignorant… I believe that Gypsies can be cruel enough beat child- deformed or not…I even believe that you did what seemed the only thing you could do to survive, like me… But Erik," her hand shot out and grabbed his. He flinched, and tried to pull it away, but for once, she seemed the stronger of them. She took his large hand in both ofher smaller ones, and squeezed it hard as she looked into his blue eyes with her green ones.

"Erik,"she said, strongly, "I cannot believe the rest. I cannot believe because the Phantom would have _died_ when his Opera house burned. You _lived_."

His eyes seemed empty as she continue to hold his gaze, along with his hand. Finally, he closed his lids, and his hand slid out of her relaxed grip. When he stood up, her teacher had returned. Somewhere in her heart she felt as if she had pulled him back from death.

"True," Erik said at last. "I lived. And this life is not that life."

"Perhaps now that you've told someone the rest," Celeste said, "You can move on?"

Erik considered this. "Yes, I… I think I can." he turned around then, and walked to the door that separated their bedrooms. "Goodnight, Celeste," he said, as he left.

"Good night," Celeste whispered to the empty air

Authoress' Note:  
If any of you classical music fans think Celeste's story sounds familiar, it is. It's based off 'Madam Butterfly', which I also don't own! I simply changed the events and circumstances a bit. Aren't I sneaky? Plus, 'Butterfly' was itself based on a novel about a Frenchman's marriage to a Japanese girl, so "Butterfly" is itself an early form of fan fiction! Ain't that neat? Anyway, please review.


End file.
